


Post

by captain_tots



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_tots/pseuds/captain_tots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wounds you cannot see are the hardest to heal. RE6 Spoilers. AU. deadfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Post-traumatic stress disorder** _(noun)_ : a psychological reaction that occurs after experiencing a highly stressing event (as wartime combat, physical violence, or a natural disaster) outside the range of normal human experience and that is usually characterized by depression, anxiety, flashbacks, recurrent nightmares, and avoidance of reminders of the event—abbreviation _PTSD_ ; called also _delayed-stress disorder, delayed-stress syndrome, post-traumatic stress syndrome_ ; compare _combat fatigue._

* * *

_That there, that's not me  
_

_I go where I please_

_I walk through walls_

_I float down the Liffey_

* * *

**_Prologue_  
**

**September 21, 2011.**

Chris looked up from his styrofoam cup and took a peek at the clock. It read 3:12, meaning he had about fifteen minutes left on break, and then it was back to the briefings he was currently hiding from. Granted, what were they going to do to him if he was late? Fire him? No chance in hell. He was the "BSAA's best," as their directors were fond of introducing him as to various politicians.

He swirled a noodle around with his fork. He wasn't sure why he still ate that shit—God knows he had more than enough money to not be eating cup'o noodles and protein shakes for lunch. Old habits died slow and hard deaths he assumed, though he wasn't quite lazy enough to start carrying MRE's around with him.

The clock ticked on. Chris groaned in anticipation of talking down another head of state who thought a stockpile of biological weapons was a dandy idea. He was not good at this diplomacy shit; why he was dragged into it was anyone's guess. "Firsthand testimony," was the lame explanation he had been offered.

Chris suspected it had something to do with the board of directors' desire to have 220 pounds of muscle with combat experience sitting at the table when discussions got heated.

The door started creaking. Chris sighed. If he was getting called back in early, he was going to inform the Albanian ambassador that thirty minutes meant thirty Goddamn minutes.

But, it wasn't a politician or director. It was Piers Nivans, Alpha team's sniper. Piers was privately Chris' favorite soldier under his command; he was young, but smart as hell and had improbable aiming skills. He was known for keeping calm and rational under even the worst pressure, which was why Chris was quite confused as to why he was crying.

"Piers, hey... what's up?"

Piers weakly waved his hand in greeting, before pulling out the chair across from Chris and just about falling into it.

"Chris, Natalie's leaving me." His voice was very soft and strained, his features twisted up into a pained expression.

Chris knew who was Natalie was: he knew that she had been the homecoming queen, that she was getting her master's degree in speech pathology, that she had strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes, and that Piers had asked her to marry him on the top of Mount Rodgers on a three day camping trip.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Chris said, words choppy. He wasn't quite sure what to say. Emotions were never his strong suit.

"She said that she 'can't connect,' with me anymore... what the fuck does that even mean?"

"I don't really know, Piers." Chris silently cursed himself. He sounded like an idiot. Good thing Piers was too choked up to even notice.

"And I asked her if it was someone else, and she said it wasn't... she'd rather be _alone_ than stay with me."

"Piers... I don't think that's what that means."

"Well then what the fuck else would it mean?" He slammed two hands down on the flimsy table hard enough to shake it, before jumping back, like he had startled himself. Realizing what he had done, Piers' face turned an even deeper shade of red. "Sorry, captain. That was unprofessional of me."

Chris shook his head.

"It's okay... Look, I'm not too good with this emotional stuff. But, I'm listening."

Piers wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve.

"I don't know what I'm going to do without her. What the hell is there to come home for?"

"You can't think like that, kid."

Piers sighed.

"Yeah, I know. I know. It's just hard. I need a drink." He laughed, bitter and hollow.

Chris shook his head.

"No, you don't need a drink." He glanced down at his cell phone and picked it up off the table, punching in a few numbers.

"Hey, this is Captain Redfield," he spoke into the receiver. "I've got a personnel issue; I'm not going to be able to make it back to the meeting. Yes, I'm sure the Albanian Ambassador will miss me. Uh huh. Thanks."

He tossed the phone back down on the table.

"We've got all day to talk, Piers."

* * *

**July 31, 2013**

The escape pod broke the waves. Chris' fingers were pressed so hard against the glass, his hands were going numb. The last few minutes of their battle with HAOS flashed through his mind in disjointed segments—Piers covered in blood; Piers injecting himself; Piers attacking the monster... Piers saving his life, again. His eyes stung with bitter tears.

Everyone he loved hurt themselves protecting him. He wanted to grab Piers by the collar, tell him that it wasn't worth it, that _he_ should have been the one to die. The same thing he had wanted to tell Jill.

Piers though, he wasn't coming back from that.

The pod opened, and Chris tasted the salty air, mixed with something metallic. The chopper would be coming for him soon. Until then though, all that was left for him to do was wait. Wait and think.

Chris cringed. He knew he could revisit Piers' death a hundred times before he got picked up.

The ocean was choppy, undoubtedly the result of the massive explosion. The water was practically bubbling.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw him. A limp body, smeared red with blood and blue in the face. A clod of red muscle tissue hung off the shoulder.

Piers.

Chris jumped out of the escape pod, not even considering the potential ramifications—drifting off, drowning, Piers' blood attracting all manners of aquatic beasts. He swam with all the force left in his body, desperately trying to reach Piers.

He was no lifeguard, and the way he dragged Piers through the water was slow and graceless, but they made it back into the escape pod. Without a moments hesitation, Chris began performing CPR.

Chest compressions, breaths; he worked so fast that he nearly forgot to remove Piers' bulletproof vest, which could only harm him now. He went on for ten minutes, pushing his hands into the center of Piers' unmoving chest, forcing air into his lungs. He felt a beat.

Piers, still unconscious, coughed seawater and bloody sputum onto his chest. Chris grabbed his radio. "This is Captain Redfield to command; I have an injured soldier, potentially infectious. I need a medical team, stat. You've got my coordinates. Hurry."

* * *

**August 2, 2013**

_He heard._

"Well, what do you think we should do about it? Just carve his face out with a potato peeler?"

"It's preferable to keeping the gangrenous tissue."

"Did anyone suggest leeches?"

"You wanna find out what happens when we let leeches go to town on C-Virus infected tissue?"

"He's been vaccinated."

"If you're so confident about that, how about you take your gloves off?"

"So, I guess we're going to have to cauterize the whole left side of the face, and the forehead?"

"Unless you've got a better idea."

"It's a shame. He was a good looking fellow, wasn't he?"

"He's BSAA. They'll pony up for reconstructive surgery."

"When we're done, it's going to take a little more than reconstructive surgery to make him look like a person again."

"Let's just focus on getting him out of this room alive, please."

_He saw._

There were six of them, astronauts, maybe. Big white suits and clear masks. Twisted faces.

They were digging into his skin with steel and fire, sealing his flesh and ligaments together. He could feel it; feel his face being burnt off. There was smoke.

He was on fire.

He screamed, but no sound would come out; his mouth wouldn't open because it was sutured shut with tiny stitches digging into the soft flesh between his nose and lips, skirting his chin.

He wanted to weep, but his tears wouldn't flow. The necessary connections were gone; all his tears were dried up, the ducts seemingly frozen shut.

The room was so sickeningly white and sterile. The lights were bright as hell, like staring right up at the sun. He was completely naked under a thin piece of paper, and these six astronauts were digging into him with what felt like a thousand lit matches.

He could smell his own flesh burning.

He tried so hard to scream, he ripped the sutures right out, tore holes right through his pretty old "cock sucking lips," as he'd been called before.

It wasn't like it mattered anymore.

"Fuck, he's awake! More Propofol; he can't wake up yet."

"Shit! I'm on it."

And then it was dark.

 _"_ _Why, Chris?"_

And then he slept.

* * *

_I'm not here  
_

_This isn't happening  
_

_I'm not here, I'm not here  
_

_In a little while  
_

_I'll be gone  
_

_The moment's already passed  
_

_Yeah, it's gone_


	2. August 3, 2012

 

  
_Oh that I had, the wing of a dove, to rest on me_  
 _This is not new to me_  
 _As I sit in this boat_  
 _But I'm so cold my bones, will freeze_  
 _And there's nought through the haze_  
 _I've been waiting so long_  
 _But my hour has gone away_

 

* * *

**August 3, 2013**

Chris sat in one of the stiff waiting room chairs, studying the bland portrait of the hospital's founder for what have must been the twentieth time. The smell of hand sanitizer was burning up his nostrils and his back was starting to ache. He'd read all the magazines, seen the entire loop of videos on cholesterol management, and remembered that he was shit at solitaire.

He tapped his foot against the floor. One of the nurses at her desk gave him a dirty look.

He stopped.

Time was running all funny for him; he would look at the clock and see that only seconds had past, and then blink a few hours away.

There was a brisk clicking noise coming from the hallway. Chris turned his head and saw her, Rebecca.

She'd grown her hair out from the last time they had seen each other, the shaggy boy's cut traded for blunt bangs and a pony tail. She still didn't look a day over eighteen to him though; Chris didn't think he could ever see Rebecca as anything but.

He got up to shake her hand.

"Thanks so much for coming."

"Anything for an old friend," she said in reply, her smile matching the one on her name tag.

_Dr. Rebecca Chambers, MD. Trauma Care._

"Sorry that it took me so long to get up here; before I found you, I weaseled my way into a huddle with the operation team."

"How's he doing?"

Rebecca shrugged a single shoulder. Her expression wasn't promising.

"He'll live. As for his expected quality of life... they took a lot of his face off. There was a pretty big mass of infected tissue. They cauterized what they could, but some of it just had to go. Same for the one eye. And he's got some bad lacerations on his lips... he somehow managed to tear the sutures out while he was under..."

"Sutures?" Chris asked. He hadn't heard anything about sutures. Rebecca looked uncomfortable.

"Yeah... they had to do some work real close to the mouth, so they intubated him through the nose and sewed his lips shut to prevent any accidental ingestion of infected tissue."

Chris knew it was necessary, knew it was in Piers' best interest, but he couldn't shake the feeling that the floor was about to fall out from under him. Rebecca took note of his expression.

"Why don't we take a break; go get something to eat? You look exhausted."

Chris nodded, slow and careful. He felt pretty nauseated, but he wanted to get out of the stifling waiting room.

"Here, follow me. We can get the doctor's food, not those weird eggs."

* * *

Chris worked on a hamburger while Rebecca downed a giant cup of coffee. They were hiding up in some sort of employee lounge which they were doubtlessly not allowed in, Chris not being an employee at all, and Rebecca working for another hospital. The chairs were pretty damn soft though, and it smelled like some sort of almond air freshener instead of purell.

"So, once he wakes up, we can get him to sign you on as his primary physician, right?"

"In theory, yes. As long as he agrees."

Rebecca got up to get more coffee. Chris bounced a nervous foot against the leg of the table. He wondered how Piers was going to feel when he woke up. Rebecca hadn't seemed terribly optimistic about it.

She returned to the table, cup refilled.

"Didn't get a lot of sleep recently?" he asked.

"Hm? Oh, the coffee. No, I'm fine."

It was obviously a lie. Chris didn't press the issue further.

"Hey, thanks for coming up here. I know I haven't seen you in years, and to just call you out of the blue..."

Rebecca smiled.

"It's fine, I owed you one."

"What do you mean?"

"You killed Wesker." She tapped her fingernails against the edge of the table. "When we used to be in STARS—God, it feels like a lifetime ago—Wesker came up to me one day, and he looked at me through those stupid fucking sunglasses. I was so freaked out; I was only eighteen after all. And he looks me up and down and says, 'I hope you are aware that you have only been placed on this team because of your appearance, and do not expect to have any role in combat.' And then he walked away. Just like that." Rebecca shook her head. "I thought he was talking about Irons being a creep; turns out Wesker had a bunch of pictures of me in his desk. Did you ever hear about that? It was after STARS disbanded, I found out."

Chris made a look of disgust, scowled a little bit.

"I'm glad that son of a bitch is dead."

"I hope he cried and screamed." She grinned. "Like a little girl."

"He screamed alright."

"Good. He deserved it."

They fell silent for a few minutes. Chris ate slowly; he didn't want to push it. He probably should have still been under observation too, but he'd badgered the doctors into officially discharging him as soon as they were certain he wasn't infected. Not that he had left the hospital since, but it was nice to get out of the fucking gown.

"So, uh... what have you been up to since '98?" Chris asked her.

"Medical school took up a couple years, then there was the residency and everything..." Rebecca looked down at the table and played around with her discarded sugar packets.

Chris looked at the plain band on her left ring finger.

"I didn't know you got married."

"Hm? No, I didn't."

She didn't make eye contact with him. Chris decided to not press the issue.

"When do you think he's going to wake up?" he asked instead.

"They're keeping him under for a while... they cauterized a good deal of his face, rather than try to remove the infectious tissue. It was too risky. He's got a really high risk of secondary infection now, though. They moved him to the burn ward."

Chris jumped up from his chair.

"Is that where he is now?"

Rebecca nodded.

"You can't go in that unit now though; not when you just got released yourself."

Chris grit his teeth.

"What am I supposed to do then? Sit on my hands and wait to see if he's okay?"

"Why don't you call your sister, go get some sleep in a real bed?"

Chris shrugged.

"Yeah, I probably should. I just don't want to leave, you know? What if something happens?"

"Chris, they'll call you. Sitting here and worrying isn't going to do anything."

She was right, as much as he didn't want to face it.

Leaving the hospital though—it felt like he was abandoning Piers.

* * *

When Piers woke up for the second time, everything was blinding white and numb.

Like snow.

Like he was buried in it.

_How did I get back to Edonia?_

He tried to speak, but his throat was so dry. He couldn't force any air through it, or it might just crumble into dust. And he wanted to move, but his body wouldn't cooperate with his mind; nothing was responding. His right eye wouldn't fucking open, it felt like when he was five and had pink eye. The lid glued down to his face. He couldn't even move his head.

_What the fuck is going on..._

With his usable left eye, he looked down to his torso.

His chest was swathed in bandages, big strips of cloth and little metal bits holding them together. His arms... he could feel both of them, but only one was there. His left arm was stuck with a needle into the wrist and another in the crook of his elbow. There was a strange force being exerted against his left nostril. He looked down and saw a tube that trailed up his chest, presumably into his nose. There was some oatmeal colored goop running through it.

Rational thought. He needed to think.

Where was he?

Bandages, the whiteness, bright lights meant a hospital or a laboratory... whether or not he was in enemy territory was yet to be discovered. And, if he was, was he strong enough to escape?

He tried to wiggle his left arm. Nothing. It was restrained to the rail of the bed. He winced—or would have. But his face was so stiff, he could barely move his lips. He tried anyway, and closed his mouth around slick plastic.

He was on a ventilator. He had a feeding tube in. And he was alone, possibly in hostile territory: enemies of the BSAA trying to keep him alive to extract information from him... using him as a human guinea pig... the possibilities were endless. Where was the last place he had been?

China.

Neo-Umbrella.

He was in one of their fucking labs; he had to get out, had to get out before they killed him, before the tried to extort information from him... and what if Chris was there too?

_Focus, Piers. Focus._

He couldn't do anything if his hands— _hand_ —was tied. Piers pulled away from the bed rail. There was a slight noise from the bed rail, but his hand didn't budge. He tried to growl, but he couldn't make any noise. A rush of pressurized oxygen pushed down his throat.

He tugged again, harder this time.

A face appeared in his peripheral vision. He shifted his weight against the back of his bed in surprise.

"Mister Nivans, can you hear me?" the face asked. He couldn't make out their age or gender; all that was visible was dark skin surrounding brown eyes. The rest of their face was covered with a light blue surgical mask from the chin up, and a blue cap covering their hair and forehead.

"Mister Nivans, could you blink for me if you can hear me?"

The voice was a woman, young, maybe? He couldn't tell. Her voice was muffled through the mask.

He opened and closed his left eye.

"Wonderful. I'm glad you can hear me. I'd like to ask you some questions. Blink once for 'yes' and twice for 'no.' Is that alright?"

He wondered if this was when they would try to extract information from him. He blinked once. Maybe he could tell who they were by the questions.

"Do you know where you are, Mr. Nivans?"

Two blinks.

"You're in the hospital. In Washington DC. This is a burn center. My name is Laura, and I'm a nurse. Do you know why you're here?"

Two blinks.

"You were infected with a unique strain of Chrysalid Virus. You received a full body blood transfusion and had infected tissue removed from your face and torso by cauterization—or burning. We had to remove your right arm and eye. Over the next few weeks, we will begin removing the scar tissue and being cosmetic restoration—skin grafts and plastic surgeries."

She paused for a moment, let it sink in.

He was so numb.

"The first person listed on your HIPPA form—those are your contacts—is a Mr. Chris Redfield. Would you like us to contact him and let him know you've woken up?"

Was the woman lying? Did it matter?

Chris. Chris was alive.

He blinked once.

* * *

"Alright, so I've got... Cheerios, Lucky Charms, and pepperoni Hot Pockets. Take your pick." His sister was rummaging through her efficiency sized kitchen, shaking empty boxes and tossing them into the trashcan.

"Do you have any milk?" he asked. It was always a good idea to make sure of these things with Claire.

"Uh..." She ducked her head into the refrigerator. "Not that I would recommend drinking."

"Hot Pockets."

Chris threw himself down on Claire's couch. She was his sister after all, it wasn't like he expected her to be the most vigilant grocery shopper in the world. He was irritated though, for reasons that weren't her fault. Her disorganization was just exacerbating it.

Claire lived in a shoebox sized studio apartment in Alexandria, a stone's throw away from her consultant gig for Terrasave. She had second hand furniture with no discernible decorative scheme, two lamps which didn't work, and a collection of workout videos stacked against the television that threatened to collapse at any moment, flooding the room with " _Taekwondo's Greatest Hits!"_ volumes one through God only knew.

Claire popped open the door to the toaster over, fumbling with the cellophane wrappers.

"Hey, I think these might be freezer burnt."

"It's fine."

She shrugged.

"Whatever you say. We could get something."

"I'm not really feeling up to it, Claire."

"Suit yourself."

She vaulted over the back of the couch, sliding down next to him.

"You wanna talk about it?" she asked.

"Nope."

"Didn't think so."

She sat her feet down on top of the coffee table, and sighed.

"Are you going to be okay, Chris?"

He paused for a moment, considered what to say. Sure, he could tell her the truth, that without Piers, he wasn't entirely sure how well he could handle things. But he had made Claire suffer enough.

"Yeah. I'll be okay."

They sat in silence, as she furrowed her forehead, like she was assessing the truthfulness of his statement. It was almost physically painful to him, the awkward distance between them.

"Do you want to watch a game or something?" he asked her, trying to break the tension.

Claire reached for the remote.

"Yeah, it's Sunday night, isn't it?"

The TV flickered to life with a static buzz. Football lights beamed onto miniature players, chasing a speck sized ball.

He smiled in spite of himself. Nostalgia.

Chris leaned back and thought about the first weekend he and Piers had spent together.

* * *

 

_He navigates, when I've lost my way  
He reminds me, to lift my eyes  
Oh that I had, the wing of a dove, to rest on me _


	3. September 23, 2011

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very dialogue heavy chapter, even for myself. I'm going back to the beginning of Chris and Piers' relationship, and I find that the best way to explore a relationship is through interpersonal interactions.

 

_Late like the evening sun, I sink to the ground_   
_But I'll keep my promises, I won't let you down_   
_Cause like a rabbit in your headlights_   
_I am the beckon to your call_   
_And like the early morning headlines_   
_I am all too predictable_

* * *

**September 23, 2011.**

"You feeling alright, Piers?" Chris asked. He'd noticed that in the two days since Piers had told Chris that his marriage was falling apart, the younger man had a sort of sickly look about him, bags under his eyes and pale skin. He was doing a pretty good job of hiding it, but Chris had been paying attention.

"Hm? Did you say something, Captain?"

Piers looked up quite suddenly, as if he was surprised.

Chris cleared his throat, shifted his weight back and forth on his boots.

"I said, uh, are you feeling alright?"

Piers snapped to attention.

"Captain, please don't think that my personal life will in any way interfere with my duties to the BSAA..."

Chris shook his head.

"No, no... that's not why I was asking. Look, uh, I'm sure things have been hard for you lately. If you want to get your mind off of stuff at home this weekend, we could..." Chris wasn't sure what the word he was looking for was. "...hang out," he finished weakly.

 _Hang out_. What a sophomoric phrase. He was almost ashamed of himself. Piers was going to think he was some sort of nut.

"Oh, uh, sure. I'd appreciate it. I just spend my nights after work trying to look at a different wall than Natalie. I don't think I could stand a whole weekend of that."

Chris breathed a near silent sigh of relief. If Piers thought he was an idiot, he hadn't made any indication of it.

"So, what do you do for fun, kid?" Chris asked. He didn't even know what his intentions were when he invited Piers to... _hang out_ with him, only that he felt bad for the guy.

Piers shrugged.

"I couldn't really tell you." Then he chuckled a bit. "That probably sounds a bit pathetic."

"Nah, I understand. This kind of job... it eats your life up, you know? Why don't you just come over; we can watch a game or something."

"Thanks, Captain. I appreciate it."

They pass a nod between the two of them.

Chris feels a knot in his stomach, something not entirely unfamiliar, like the sort of anxiety he'd get in the battlefield. But no one was gunning for him today. No, he was just spending some time with Piers tomorrow.

Nothing more than that.

So why did he feel a tightness in his chest?

Chris woke up at seven on Saturday morning, like he always did. Military habit, he couldn't stand to sleep in. His apartment, normally up to his standards, seemed somehow stuffy and dark today. He frowned. He didn't want to further depress newly single Piers: Welcome to my bachelor pad, enjoy the refrigerator full of Hungry Man frozen meals, the overflowing laundry basket, the embarrassingly large TV, and the dirty microwave. Look at all you have to anticipate!

In reality—unbiased by what Piers was going to think of him—his apartment was nicer than most, a one bedroom nestled alongside various political players who all assumed he was some sort of important mover or shaker himself. Improbably avoiding death a few times a year brought in a pretty substantial income. Chris lived there out of practicality rather than status however. It was close to BSAA headquarters, and that was all he cared about. The walls were paste white, the floors were a rickety hardwood that the real estate agent who sold him the place had been enamored with. He didn't have much in the way of decoration, or much of anything other than the bare essentials, plus a massive gun safe and his toys: the television, the game consoles, and the desktop computer.

He rolled out of bed and set to work making the place more presentable, cracking open the windows, shoving his laundry basket into the closet, turning on a few lights.

Why did he care so much?

Because Piers was a good soldier, he automatically answered, and he wanted to cheer him up.

He was lying to himself; he'd been lying to himself from the moment he'd met Piers. But, what the fuck else could he do? He wasn't coming to terms with it, wasn't going to _tell him._ God forbid.

There was a sick little part of him that wasn't too sad that Piers' wife had left him. And then he felt like a complete asshole.

Nothing was every going to happen between him and Piers.

He fished a pair of socks out of the couch cushions and threw them against the wall.

"Dammit," he muttered. Maybe this wasn't the best idea.

Chris attempted to push the thought from his mind by getting himself ready, as if that would work. He ran a brush through his hair a few times, scooped some gel out onto his palm and mussed it up.

_You wanna look pretty for your boyfriend?_

He willed his internal monologue to shut up. It did not; it was rude that way.

* * *

Piers was supposed to arrive at noon, but at ten there was a knock on the door. Chris put his television on mute and got up to open it.

Lo and behold it was Piers, standing in the doorway, looking almost sheepish.

"Hey, Captain. Sorry for being early... I just didn't feel like standing around at home, you know?"

"Uh yeah; that's fine."

Chris decided that he was incapable of speaking to Piers without sounding like a jackass.

"Come on in, kid," he said, ushering him inside the apartment. "So, uh, what are you in the mood for?"

Piers stood at a distance from Chris, hands stuffed into his pockets, studying the floor with intense concentration. The awkwardness between them was almost stifling.

"Do you want to see what's on TV?" Piers asked, voice hushed. "I just need some time... thanks so much for letting me come here, Captain. It means a lot to me."

"Yeah, of course."

Chris grabbed the remote and flipped the TV on.

"What's that? Football game? Isn't this outta season?" Piers asked, sitting down on the couch. He looked exhausted, dark circles under both eyes. Sleep deprivation—Chris knew it well.

"Oh yeah; I watch reruns sometimes. It's a channel I get."

"I bet you played football in school, didn't you?" Piers asked, a smile flashing across his tired features.

Chris sat down on the couch next to him, but keeping a distance.

"I didn't last too long in high school. Got my GED, joined the Air Force at seventeen. What about you?"

Piers nodded, as if he anticipated the story.

"Man, you've been serving your whole life, haven't you?" He chuckled a bit. "I really feel like a kid around you; I've seen shit compared to you. I was all into football and that in high school. College too, for a little bit, before I got scouted by the BSAA."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Chris said. "Getting an education—I'd like to say that I'd do it too if I got a second chance, but I was never too good with school and all. Loved reading and everything, I just always felt like they asked the stupidest questions." He grinned. "I was an asshole kid though."

"That's funny, I mean, you're such a good captain. I never saw you as the troublemaker type."

"Well, I guess it's because I've seen my fair share of bad leaders. I knew exactly the sort of man I didn't want to be."

They fell silent for a moment, Piers looking intently at Chris. It was making him feel a little nervous, the attention.

"You're the sort of man I want to be someday," Piers said, voice firm.

Chris almost snorted.

"Careful what you wish for, kid."

"What?" Piers snapped back. "Why wouldn't I want to be a leader like you? You're the best damn captain in the BSAA—you're a fucking legend. Just the fact that I'm here right now, sitting on your couch, I can't even believe it..."

Chris cut him off.

"Look, I really appreciate all this... just, don't put too much faith in me, alright? It makes me nervous." He attempted to chuckle to lighten up the mood, but it came out as a grim sort of cough.

The ensuing silence was punctuated only by the occasional shouts of the crowd onscreen. Piers had almost sunken in to his corner of the couch, frowning and tapping his fingers against his knee. Chris felt bad—all Piers wanted to do was be kind to him, and he had to go and punish him for it? It wasn't like Piers hadn't been suffering enough.

Chris cleared his throat. He was bad at these sort of things.

"Hey, uh, I didn't mean to tell you off or anything. I appreciate it, really, I do. Just, I'm not the best role model in everything, okay?"

Piers stirred at his end of the couch.

"Yeah, I get it. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

Chris shook his head.

"Shit, Piers, let's stop sitting around and apologizing to each other."

"Is than an order, sir?" Piers laughed.

"You better fucking believe it is." Chris grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. "Let's quit sulking around my apartment. You like Thai food?"

Piers shrugged.

"Can't say I've ever had it before."

Chris glanced over at the clock. It was almost eleven. Perfect.

"Well, now's your chance to find out. That's an order, by the way."

* * *

"Shit, this is so spicy," Piers snorted, gulping water down. A few noodles were still hanging off his fork.

"Can't handle the heat, kid?"

They were sitting in a corner table at a local place that Chris got take out from more often than he probably should have. The owners seemed almost impressed that he had brought someone else with him. The inside was a little dingy: the table wobbled on an uneven leg and the walls were covered in slowly peeling depictions of crane's frolicking.

"I haven't had spicy food in ages; Natalie hates this stuff..."

Piers got quiet with the mention of his wife. Chris bit down on his bottom lip, uncomfortable.

"I guess that doesn't matter now, does it?" He shook his head. "Fuck."

Chris played with his food, twisting a noodle around his fork over and over again.

"Uh... you wanna talk about it?"

Piers stuffed a piece of pork in his mouth and looked down at the table, shaking his head no.

"Okay, that's fine," Chris said, secretly relieved. He had no clue what to say to the guy—sure, he'd had his fair share of break ups and make ups, but he knew it wasn't the same.

Piers swallowed, his face contorted into a painful expression, and smacked his hand against the table.

"It just feels like such bullshit, you know? I wish... I wish she was cheating on me or something; that there was a reason, other than my _failure to communicate_ ; I don't even know what that means."

"Uh... have you tried talking to her about it?" Chris offered. It seemed like the correct thing to say. Piers frowned.

Evidently it was not.

"She said there's no point in trying to fix things now, because I'm just gonna go back to the way things are now in a few weeks, and the fucked up thing is that I'm pretty sure she's right."

Piers stabbed his fork into his plate, almost violent.

"Hey, it's going to be okay. She's mad right now... she'll come around."

Piers looked up at him with watery eyes.

"The food is really spicy, isn't it?" Chris asked, soft.

"She wants me out by next week. All my shit is boxed up." He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Yeah, it's really hot. Clearing out my sinuses—I think I have allergies."

"So, uh, you know where you're going?"

Piers shook his head.

"Not a clue. My mom said I can come stay with her for awhile, but she lives outside of Baltimore, and that's a hell of a drive."

"You going to sublet a place or..."

Piers laughed, buried his face in his hands.

"Captain, I don't know what that means."

"Look, just...when you've got a break on Monday, we'll get it taken care of, okay? Go down to a real estate office or whatever. Get you sorted out."

Piers nodded.

"Yeah, sounds good...God, I can't thank you enough. Seriously."

"Don't mention it."

* * *

Chris was laying on his couch and thinking. Specifically, thinking about Piers, and the way he bit his bottom lip when he was frustrated, or how intensely he would look at you when he was really paying attention...

_The fuck is wrong with me?_

He closed his eyes, tried to think about the last woman he'd been with—shit, had it been that long? He'd gone back to Africa over the Summer for some follow up with Kijuju, ended up staying the night at Sheva's house—something had gone wrong between her and the current boyfriend—and when all was said and done, she spent the next morning on the phone caught between tearful apologies and yelling into the receiver.

So maybe his track record with women wasn't the best, but it existed, nonetheless.

Chris cracked open an eyelid, looked around the room.

Piers was coming back tomorrow, said he needed to get away from it all, said being at home was like walking on egg shells, and every time he looked at her, she just started crying.

And Chris wanted to offer up his couch or something, but he knew there was a line that he wasn't supposed to cross, and that was pushing it. Thai food and real estate advice was one thing, a place to stay was another, with the two of them living in such close proximity, sleeping, eating, bathing...

_Stop it. Stop it right now._

Piers was a good soldier, and he was helping him out because it was _the right thing_ to do, not out of any sort of weird ulterior motives.

Now, if he could just convince himself of that.

He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulder blades up to crack his back. He just needed to relax, take a breather, stop thinking about work so much; it was making him crazy. He was sick of this office shit, being cooped up with a bunch of pencil pushers and managers who didn't know a thing about bioterrorism, who disregarded Chris' advice when he had fucking been there himself. He needed out, before he started going even nuttier than forming a "crush," if that's what it was, on a subordinate.

Not that he wanted a bioterrorist attack, but a false alarm and a trip overseas was sounding pretty damn good right about now.

Chris closed his eyes, tried to get a nap in. Maybe he'd get up a little later, call Claire or something. He felt himself drifting off within a few minutes.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table, jolting him awake.

The display read a text message from Piers, of course. Why wouldn't it have been Piers, just as he stopped thinking about him.

"Hey thanks again."

Chris shook his head. He couldn't get away from this, could he?

"You're welcome. See you tomorrow."

* * *

  
_You're steady as I come undone, you_  
 _You're quietly bound_  
But I'll keep my promises  
I won't let you down  


**Author's Note:**

> Story inspired by a prompt from "chrisxpiersfan" on tumblr. If any of you have tumblr accounts, I highly recommend you give them a follow. Piers' ex-wife comes from sadlittletiger's headcanon, which I merely borrowed. Lyrics are the intellectual property of Radiohead.
> 
> Leeches really are used in modern medicine. Yes, really.


End file.
